The Chronicles of Artie Pendragon, Girl-King of England Born
by troydenite
Summary: There was a time when even kings were young... which doesn't help when you don't actually age, and happen to be fourteen, and a girl. Just don't ask Artie too much about it... or her sour foster-brother, for that matter. Retelling of the Arthurian legend as desecrated by Nasu, with elements stolen wholesale from Malory, White and Tennyson. Updates every week.
1. Chapter 1

_For many a petty king ere Arthur came_  
 _Ruled in this isle, and ever waging war_  
 _Each upon other, wasted all the land;_  
 _And still from time to time the heathen host_  
 _Swarmed overseas, and harried what was left._  
 _And so there grew great tracts of wilderness,_  
 _Wherein the beast was ever more and more,_  
 _But man was less and less, till Arthur came._  
 _For first Aurelius lived and fought and died,_  
 _And after him King Uther fought and died,_  
 _But either failed to make the kingdom one._  
 _And after these King Arthur for a space,_  
 _And through the puissance of his Table Round,_  
 _Drew all their petty princedoms under him,_  
 _Their king and head, and made a realm, and reigned._

 ** _Alfred, Lord Tennyson; The Coming Of Arthur_**

 **The Chronicles of Artie, Girl-King Of England Born**

 **Chapter One; Arturia - Before Badon**

The first thing one remembers about war, I suppose, once one has beaten down all the usual tremors and thrills through the long march, is how loud and coarse and wild everything is. Yesterday we made camp and the men swam in revelry. I believe they finished most of the drink, which is unfortunate, but by God's help we will feast on Saxon mead ere the morrow! Or so Kay said, meaning it exactly as much as he means anything. He is a bit of a sour dunderhead, my dear foster-brother, and he preens like a parrot.

Anyhow (I suppose I must learn to curb these diversions if I am to be King), as is my custom, I sat in my tent over meat and bread. With me were stalwart Bedivere, gallant Lancelot, and Kay, who from now on shall be known only as Sir Lemon.

"No, no," Bedivere was saying. "We draw up our knighthood, sound the bugle, and charge down the hill. Strike the awe of God in them, like the very fire of heaven!"

"Forgive me, Sir Bedivere," said Lancelot (always courtly, through and through, the very lilac of chivalry, but I think I shall stop now), "but we might as well gift ourselves to the Saxon spears. If we are to break their ranks we must draw up on the left, out of sight. The hill will hide us, our foot will charge, and then we sweep around and through the enemy's rear. As things are we have too few horses to spare."

Bedivere frowned.

"A strike from behind? Are you urging us to cowardice, Sir Lancelot?"

"Nay, Sir Bedivere. There are times for noble words and tourney-play, and then there are times for war. I am no archer, Sir, to cower in the ranks and break at the first glint of enemy steel. But I know that a spear in the breast is as good as a lance in the back, and I'd rather we did the stabbing. Don't forget" -and here he turned to me and bowed his head- "we fight not for chivalry, but for the Pendragon. And we will see him on his throne yet, Christ willing."

Sir Bedivere frowned, but held his peace. He is a gracious foe, Sir Lancelot, and he turns all hearts to him. They say he was raised by the Lady of the Lake. Looking at him, I can believe it - she had a very pretty arm, after all. I think I shall learn to love him. Not in that way, of course. Chastely, as befits a true knight. Something like a friend, or a sweeter Sir Lemon.

"What do you think, Sire?" asked Bedivere.

"Well," I said, "I think fighting for chivalry is all very good and all, but I have to be King first, don't I? Otherwise we can't do anything we said we'd do. Like make a table round, and all that other stuff Merlyn keeps going on about."

It was generally admitted that this was true, although I do think I could have phrased it better. One day I'll speak just like a King should.

"Anyone taking that?" asked Sir Lemon loudly.

Everyone looked at him, then at the last piece of meat.

"Not really," said Bedivere.

"Not at all," said Lancelot.

"Just eat it, you ninny," I said.

Sir Lemon shot me a lemony glare, snatched the meat, then stormed out.

"He does that sometimes," I informed the rest.

"With all due respect, Sire," said Lancelot, "the Saxon host arrives in two days. Sir Kay may be fiery, but all the same he would die for you. May I suggest that you bring him back into the fold?"

"Do you mean the tent?" I asked.

"Sir Lancelot," said Bedivere stiffly, "is speaking in knightly circles. He means, Sire, that you should make up with Sir Kay."

"Oh, come on," I said. "Kay's a big dumb grouch, but he always comes around in the end."

Lancelot smiled. It was a very courtly smile.

"Should not the King show magnanimity, my liege? Rumor runs fast in a camp, and unless you seize the reins it shall surely go amok. Show the men how great your heart truly is."

There wasn't much I could say after that, mostly because I didn't understand half of it. But it sounded nice, which was probably why one gulp and three minutes later I found myself outside.

"So," I chirped, "how's things?"

He didn't even look up.

"Go away, Artie."

I puffed out my chest.

"Sorry, but I'm the King now. So if anything, I'm ordering _you_ to go away. In my direction."

"That didn't even make any sense."

"Too bad. The King Arturia Pendragon orders you to make sense of it, because she is Rightwise King of England Born, and also the greatest little sister ever. Adore her, villein."

Sir Lemon groaned.

"Artie, do you even know what a King does?"

I blinked.

"Sure I do. She - I mean, he..."

"There. That's it. That's exactly it. Do you honestly think you can hide the fact that you're a girl forever? What about when you... you know."

"What?"

"You know."

"...No, I don't?"

"Never mind."

Sir Lemon is weird sometimes.

"Anyway," I said, "I have no idea what you're on about. I think I'm doing perfectly fine."

"You don't even wear a helmet."

"Merlyn said I should show my face to the enemy. Something about proving my name..."

"Merlyn doesn't have a lick of good sense in his pretty head. They say he's half-demon."

"Hey," I frowned. "Even if he is, his parents aren't his fault. He's only a magician, and older than anyone in the world, and a lot of other things besides. And he knew my father."

"You mean Uther," he said flatly.

"Well, I guess. Pendragon and all that..."

"Ector's our dad, Artie. Sir Ector. Maybe not by blood, but you know he loves you more than Uther ever did. Or did you throw your family away just so you could play King?"

"What? That's not what I meant at all!"

"No, it's fine. Just go back to your tent with your little army and your handsome knights who call you Sire and my liege and Your Majesty. Never mind Kay, he's just your sourpuss older brother. Oh wait, never mind, he's not even your real brother. Oddsblood, that settles things. How wonderfully convenient."

"Okay," I said. "You earned it."

He scowled, opened his mouth, and then I socked him right in the nose. Which was great, because I haven't been able to do that for ages, and he usually gets the first hit in. Of course, he punched back, and we rolled down the hill, and there was a bit of kicking and a lot of scratching and maybe just a bit of hair-pulling. But it was all good fun, a real solid juicy fight, right until he got me in the chest.

"Agh!"

I doubled over, moaning. I think the grass went a few different colors.

"Ha!" he crowed. "Serves you right, you little—oh, no. Artie, are you alright? I didn't mean to..."

I mumbled something, tears coming to my eyes.

"It was an accident. I'm sorry. Please don't tell Merlyn. Actually, don't tell anyone. Actually... oh, sweet Virgin..."

He put an awkward hand on my heaving shoulders. I sniffed, turned around, and kicked him in the balls.

It was a while before either of us could say anything.

"So, we're good?" he asked after a while.

"We're good," I said. "You should have seen your face. I could have cured a pig with all that sweat."

"Yeah, well, you should have seen your eyes. Crybaby."

"Help, help. Save me, Sir Lancelot. My maidenly honour is being besmirched by the recreant knight, Sir Lemon."

"...What did you just call me?"

"Nothing. Now, we've got a battle to plan, so let's go clean up. Race you to the river. Last one in is a rotting squirrel."

"Wait!" he winced. "How do you expect me to walk?"

"Rotting squirrel!"

They say a good King plans ahead. I think I'm getting the hang of it. Well, here's another plan - tomorrow we trounce the Saxons, drive them right off Badon Hill, and then everyone crowns me. Arthur Pendragon, King of all England.

Sounds a bit off, but I'm sure I'll get used to it.


	2. Chapter 2

_"I know all about your birth and parentage and who_ gave _you your real name. I_ _know the sorrows before you, and the joys, and how there will never again be anybody who dares to call you by the friendly name of Wart. In future it will be your glorious doom to take up the burden and to enjoy the nobility of your proper title: so now I shall crave the privilege of being the very first of your subjects to address you with it—as my dear liege lord, King Arthur."_

 _~Merlyn - The Sword in the Stone, by T.H. White_

 **The Chronicles of Artie Pendragon, Girl-King** **of** **England Born**

 **Chapter Two: Kay -** **The Beginning**

Artie's coronation was all right, I guess. Nothing fantastic, unless you put stock in gifts and gold and wizards. I don't. I can't believe I'm the only one who can smell this whole crock of nightsoil. But that's what you get for being me.

Pretty much everyone was there: the Lady of the Lake, three other weird-women who just stood there staring at nothing, more barons and kings than you could shake a sceptre at, a bunch of fey... oh, and don't forget Merlyn, master of being a cryptic git. I stood on the side with the rest of the knights, in front of the captains and all the soldiers handpicked to witness the royal splendor. They weren't very happy to be there. I think they'd rather be getting sloshed in some whorehouse or another. Benefits of peace.

Anyway, the chapel was a sight. Packed worse than a horse thief's stable.

"So, Sir Lancelot, isn't that your mom?"

I pointed at the Laky Lady. He turned, smiling at me in his mildly prissy way.

"Indeed, Sir Kay, I am forever indebted to the Lady of the Lake. For when I was but a swaddling babe, my father King Ban of Benwick and his sainted queen Elaine fled from the usurping wretch Claudas de la Deserte. And I was indeed carried in their arms, and…"

I can't stand Lancelot, really. No way on God's green earth is anyone actually that nice. You'd think he rubs flowers and sunshine in his hair, or bathes twice a week, or something ridiculous like that. Yeah. Lancie's a two-bath type of man.

"…and thus, receiving that vision of my double-cousins and my own self safe in the Lady's garden, the worries of my mother were assuaged. And I have it on good report that my aunt Evaine died of bliss. But never - and, mind you, not even after all the wondrous things that transpired - never would I presume to call a Queen of Faerie my mother."

"Wow," I said. "Neat. So was Elaine your mom, or Evaine?"

Lancie stared at me for a bit, then opened his mouth.

"Shh," hissed Bedivere. "It's starting."

Trumpets. Fanfare. A few hurried coughs from the people who just had to get it out of their systems. The bishops walked right out and then Artie was inching her way towards the throne, wrapped in the most ridiculous blue ermine mantle I've ever seen. I was praying that she'd trip and at the same time that she wouldn't, if you get what I mean. She doesn't even do dresses, let alone giant fuzzy capes.

She flumped right down, holding the scepter and wearing her fancy new sheath, the one the Lady gave her without even bothering to bubble a hello. Not the sword, Excalibwuh or whatever. Apparently Merlyn said it was to 'symbolise the coming of peace,' and anyway, the Lady was going to give the sword back to her. Again. Ceremonially. I hoped she'd say hello this time.

Speaking of Merlyn, he was standing beside the gilded seat. It's a bit hard to describe the codger if you haven't seen him. Think the oldest eyes ever, like your grandfather's but thrice that. Then picture snow-white hair, as long and luscious as a maiden's, a sharp ageless face and the prissiest robes this side of Lancie. That's Merlyn.

Gadzooks, I hate Merlyn.

So, there was Artie, sitting on that massive throne and staring right back into all those pews, completely bone-white. You'd think she was starkers, only she demonstrably wasn't, but anyway it looked like she was ready to throw the sheath at Merlyn and bolt. Again, something I was wishing and not-wishing for.

"We are gathered here today," said Merlyn in solemn tones, "to witness the dawning of a new age."

Half the time Merlyn wanders around like a two-hundred-year-old man looking for his dead cat's dead grandsire, but when he gets serious his voice hits you on the head like a frozen flail. The chapel grew so quiet, you could have heard a fly sneeze.

Of course, one of the barons immediately ruined it by breaking into a magnificent volley of coughs. Merlyn stared at him long enough for everyone else to stare at him, then turned back to the general throng.

"Before you, proved by prophecy and the hand of God, is Arthur, true son and heir of Uther Pendragon. Out of all men in England he drew the sword Caliburn from its stone, and with it smote the heathen from our shores. Does any man contest his right to the throne of all England?"

"Technically," I whispered to Bedivere, "he lost Caliburn in a-"

There was a tremendous ruckus behind me.

"Christ and Arthur!" yelled the soldiers, who had probably just come to. "Christ and Arthur!"

Their captains made frantic gestures for them to shut up.

"Christ and Arthur," said one unlucky sap.

Merlyn stared at him. He went quite yellow. I might have been seeing things, but I think Artie giggled.

"That being as it may," said Merlyn, "I shall now bind the Pendragon with most strait vows, both for him and all the people. This is a very important ceremony. A very, very important ceremony. Hum."

He reached into his robes and produced a very thick scroll, which started spooling around him like a hemp blanket.

"I'll have you know," came his muffled, serene voice, "that I wouldn't need to do this if you all didn't keep interrupting me. Ah, yes."

And then the scroll burst into a flock of doves, to the great amazement of everyone present. Merlyn stepped in front of Artie, which naturally meant no-one could actually see her.

"Do you, Arthur, son of Uther, son of Constantine, swear that the church of God and the whole Christian people shall have true peace at all times by your judgement?"

"Sure," said Artie.

"And do you swear that you will forbid extortion and all kinds of wrong-doing to all orders of men, and save them from wretch and ghoul and beast alike?"

"Don't see why not," said Artie.

"And do you swear that you will enjoin equity and mercy in all judgments, and uphold righteousness as long as you live?"

Artie peered out from behind Merlyn's left sleeve, blinking.

"That's why I'm here, isn't it?"

Merlyn raised his hands, and light blazed through the stained glass. A gleaming circlet of gold settled in his fingers, as if forged by the rainbow sun.

"Then, by the power invested in me, and by the grace of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, I crown you Once and Future King of this Isle of Albion. Long live Arthur Pendragon, King of the Britons!"

"Christ and Arthur!" roared the soldiers, this time jubilant at getting it right.

"Long live the King!" cried Bedivere.

Lancie clapped, but I saw his eyes shining. The nobles made a polite flutter. The Lady of the Lake went up and re-presented Excalibwuh, although I couldn't make out if she said hello or not. The rich ones brought gifts. And I saw Artie looking more and more pleased and more and more royal, until she had the good grace to smile at the kings and the barons, and let them kiss her ring.

And I was just about to grumble something and go outside for some suckling pig when she looked at me and winked, and then I went up and hugged her right off her throne and she didn't even hit me.

Yeah. It was all right, the coronation. Not too bad at all.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Chronicles of Artie, Girl-King of England Born**

 **Chapter Three: From Now On, Quotes Are Also Outlawed**

"And that's why you're going to be my seneschal," I told Sir Lemon.

We were sitting alone at the Round Table, the servants bustling all around us. I like the Table. It's as Round as he said it'd be. Merlyn really outdid himself this time.

"A seneschal," said Sir Lemon, "spends half his time with the servants and the other half worrying about them. I'd sooner kiss a dead pig."

"Thank you, Sir," grumbled the old lady scrubbing underneath the Table. "Lovely to be appreciated, Sir."

"Seeing as I am King," I said, nose in the air, "the pig thing can be arranged."

Sir Lemon's seat is seventeen places from my right, so he sat in Lancelot's today. I'm sure Lancelot won't mind.

"That's not the point, Artie," he said, rubbing his brow.

"Well, looks like you'll have to be seneschal, then."

He looked at me all sour-like.

"Was this Merlyn's idea?"

I had to think about how to get around that one for a while.

"…Maybe? I think. Wait, no. I don't think maybe, I _know_ maybe. Absolutely maybe."

He sighed, but didn't follow up. I must be a better liar than I thought.

"Okay, never mind that. Why do you think I should take the bloody role?"

"Well, isn't it obvious?"

"No."

"Really?"

"No."

Man, Sir Lemon sure is dense sometimes.

"Well, let's put it this way. Guards?"

They snapped up, saluted, then marched up from the door. It's pretty nice being able to make people do things.

"Yes, Sire?"

"Your swords."

The taller one balked.

"But, Sire…"

"Come on, give them now. I mean" -and here I coughed, putting on my King-voice- "upon your troth, man, hand me the swords."

The short one shrugged.

"He's only the King," he remarked, and unsheathed his blade for his fellow to take. The tall guard stared at it for a moment, then pulled his own and knelt.

"Our swords are yours, Sire."

"And I'll give them right back, upon your troth. Now, can you hold the doors? Tell anyone who tries to come in that everything is perfectly fine. King's orders."

"Wonderful," said Sir Lemon. "I can see where this is going already. Also, do you even know what 'troth' means?"

I gave one sword to him and flourished the other.

"Sure I do. It's something you eat and drink out of, right? Sounded pretty kingly to me, and no-one said otherwise, so…"

"Artie. That's a trough. T-R-O-U-G-H. And you put those in stables. For animals."

I considered this.

"Tomorrow," I decided, "I'm going to outlaw spelling."

(And I will, too. Just need to tell Merlyn.)

He hit his head with the flat of his blade and kept it there for several seconds.

"Have at thee," he groaned.

"Have at thee!" I cried, and then I was on him.

He's actually not bad with a sword, Sir Lemon, if you consider that most of his training was done by the old dungeon dummy. I tried not to hurt him too much. We sparred to and fro and up and down and sideways and over the old lady and around the table and back over the old lady until finally he dropped his sword and flopped down on Gawain's chair.

"That's it," he panted. "I give up."

"And a good thing too, Sir," snapped the old lady. "Look what you did to my nice clean floor. Pardon me, Y'majesty."

"Now, if you were seneschal, Kay," I smirked, "you could transfer Maud here to another room. How did you even survive the Saxons?"

"An exquisite fit of divine pique, I'm sure. Come here, man."

He waved the short guard over and pointed at his fallen sword. The guard shot him a dirty look, then picked it up.

Spurred on by a sudden idea (aren't those great?), I dropped my own sword.

"Oh, mine too."

"But of course, Sire."

The guard walked over, bowed, picked it up, bowed again, then returned to his post. His friend clonked him in the shoulder, grinning.

I looked at Sir Lemon and raised my eyebrows.

"Shut up," he said.

"I didn't even say anything."

"Now you have, so shut up."

"Oh no, _lese majeste._ I'll have your head for that."

"Just get to the point."

"Well, your tongue is sharper than your sword. Which is pretty sharp. And if I'm not mistaken, you'd be a lot safer as seneschal than as a proper, damsel-saving, dragon-stabbing sorta knight."

He frowned, but it was his thinky frown and not his lemony frown.

"And I don't think I'm mistaken," I said again, just to get even more to the point. "Remember when it was just you, me and Merlyn and we went around righting wrongs all over England?"

"Ah, yes, the good old days."

"Yup."

"Those were horrible."

"Only because you kept getting in the way of my justice, block-breeches. Anyway, I'm going to keep doing that. Only instead of going on quests, I'm going to start sending my knights on quests. And people are going to start talking about the both of us if you never ever get one."

"So, you're making an excuse to keep me at home."

"Pretty much. Besides, you can grouch at the servants all day long and they'll have to listen to you."

"Merlyn really did put you up to this."

"So is that a yes?"

He sighed in that long, worn-out way of his, and that was when I knew victory was mine.

"Alright! Sweet. So, um…"

I rushed back to the tall guard, grabbed his sword, then rushed back.

"Kneel."

He raised his eyes to Heaven, then dropped.

"I, King Arthur Pendragon, do dub you, Sir Kay, seneschal of my royal household, and all servants and foodstuffs and furniture thereof."

"Whoopee," said the seneschal.

"Kiss my ring."

"Ugh."

But he did, and then I bid him rise. Not bad for my first seneschal-dubbing, if I do say so myself.

"You'll get your arms later," I said, "Now, away to the kitchen, that you might survey your domain!"

"Whatever. Oh, and Maud?"

Maud popped her aged head from out under the Table.

"Yes, Sir. What do you want, Sir."

"Get out."

"Whatever you say, Sir," shrilled Maud, "and good riddance. These floors can go clean themselves. Lawks-a-daisy, you'd think your fancy magician could magic up some fancy magic mop, but no, it's all up to old Maud!"

Muttering, the old lady shuffled off towards the doors.

"I'll make sure you get a pension!" I called after her.

"Pardon me, Y'majesty, but I'm going back to the farm! I've had enough of your knights and barons an' all those other nobles who can't pick up after their gorramed selves!"

"Well," I blinked, "have fun."

"And sparring at table, too," she added emphatically. "Lord above, what is this land coming to?"

"Well, I-"

"Pardon me, Y'majesty!"

Then she slammed the doors, leaving two rather shaken guards. And that's why Kay's first job tomorrow is getting a new maidservant to scrub the Great Hall.

Good thing she won't need to spell. 'Cause that'll be illegal.


	4. Chapter 4

**The Chronicles of Artie, Girl-King of England Born**

 **Chapter Four; Kay - Woebetide Thee, Lad**

If I ever have grandchildren, I'm going to prop them on my knees, look them in their stupid eyes and tell them to never, ever, ever become seneschal. It's been about a year since Artie clapped me on the shoulder with the blasted title, and my days go more or less like this:

I. Wake up before cock-crow. Roll out of bed. Put blanket back on bed. Stumble out. Stumble back in. Put on shirt. Stumble out.

II. Check the ledgers. Do the ledgers again because peasants can't write. Re-check the ledgers.

III. Check on breakfast, especially the quail eggs.

IV. Scream for new quail eggs because they always overcook them.

V. Kick the ladies-in-waiting out and watch Artie have her breakfast, which is pretty much the only time I have alone with her these days. Grumble something about the quail eggs being badly done because they always are. She'll look at me like it's easy, then ask for more quail eggs and a cup of warm milk. Every time.

VI(a). Go down to the kitchen and send a maidservant up with the quail eggs. Repeat Step IV as needed.

VI(b). Send a messenger down to the royal farm for some milk. Make sure it's fresh milk. Send maidservant up with the milk. Scream at her not to spill the milk. Half the time she will, in which case repeat step VI(b).

VII. Spend ten minutes eating breakfast, which is usually a piece of bread and the badly-cooked quail eggs.

VIII. Start preparing for lunch. Check list of which nobles are coming today, and what they don't eat a lot of and what they do eat a lot of and what they don't eat at all. Make sure everyone sticks to it, mostly by screaming. Check spitjacks aren't slacking. Check furnaces aren't too cold. Check meat isn't going bad. At this point the kitchen is blazing hot, and I swear my spit turns to liquid lard.

IX. Serve lunch. This is where things get good. As seneschal, I'm pretty much obligated to stand there during the feast, reminding all the serving-boys of the day's order and particular gimmick. Artie's not quite as rich as the kings of yore yet, so we have to economise. Sometimes we line the dishes with fruit. Other times we put birds into pigs, or pigs into birds. Sometimes we stuff dormice into other dormice. When we run out of ideas we sprinkle salt on the trenchers, turn up the torches and call it Bible Day. Who needs a jester when you have all this food? Not with Sir Kay around, apparently.

X. Watch everyone eat like pigs. If you haven't seen a table of nobles at feeding time, you can praise the Lord because I don't think you'll be able to stomach anything for a while. The knights aren't that bad, seeing as they're fighting men, but the barons are a whole different story. Whenever they're at table the hall turns into a pen of gold porkers, slobbering their way through the meat and wine. They don't even use the trenchers properly, just wipe their mouths and toss the bread. Fortunately, whenever they're expected I make sure the Round Table gets rolled well out the way, so the knights can sit by themselves and I can contain the carnage. Artie just kinda stares at the barons the whole time, taking huge unthinking bites of whatever she has in her hand at the moment. I don't know whether she's fascinated or terrified.

XI. Get the servants to clean up at full gallop. Roll the Round Table back to centre stage. Go outside, get the crowd's attention, have the men remove the large fancy 'NO QUESTS TAKEN FOR NOW' sign and lead everyone to the Great Hall. Eventually they should be able to find their own way in, especially if they're repeat customers, but I don't want some beauteous damsel making her way into my quarters by accident. As nice as that would be, Artie would never let me hear the end of it.

XII. Have lunch, which is usually two trenchers, a few leaves of lettuce, and roughly three slivers of pork. One day, I'm sure, the people will remember the great sacrifices of Sir Kay of the Kitchen, and eat commemorative two-trencher lunches in his honour. And they will be the saddest people in history.

XIII. Watch as Artie listens to the supplicants of the day and despatches her do-gooders. Usually all the damsels beg for Sir Lancelot - actually, everyone begs for Sir Lancelot. There's some up-and-coming knights, like Gawain (son of King Lot of Orkney and some Morgan la Foo or another, also a blonde boot-licking twerp), but it's mostly all Lancie. They say his heart is so pure, it gives him the strength of a hundred men. What a riot. I bet if I bathed twice a week I'd be just as pure as him, and then some. Still, the whole fiasco makes me almost grateful that I'm stuck in Camelot. Almost. I can still taste the grease.

XIV. Up and down and around the whole castle to make sure the maidservants are doing their jobs. Turns out old Maud came back, and good thing too - that cured crone really knows how to work a brush. We've reached a mutual understanding, she and I. I don't scream at her, and in return, she screams at everybody else. Works a treat. By the way, I need to get Merlyn to give me a sainted by-our-Lady floor plan. He built the castle and the whole city, and I'm pretty sure he's also the only one who knows where all the rooms actually are. I've spent more than enough time finding new doors in completely unexpected places. There's only so many girls you can fit through the ceiling.

XV. Back to the kitchen to check on dinner. At this point everyone has more or less given up, including the cooks, so it's usually thick stew with bread and assorted vegetables and whatever meat we managed to save from the nobles, re-carved to look nice. The knights don't complain, and neither does Artie - although part of me is just waiting for all the gauntlets to fly. I'll get them all with bad meat is what I'll do.

XVI. Clean up after everyone. What did you think?

XVII. Have dinner, which I swear gets paltrier every night. I'm just waiting for the day where I can march up to Artie and show her my one crust and two lentils. Then she'll have to do something about it. Still, better the servants have their fill than me. Some of them get four lentils.

XVIII. Finally get back to my room. Throw my greasy clothes at whoever the maidservant happens to be at the moment. Fall on bed with a vengeance and worry myself to sleep.

XIX. Repeat Step I.

I hate this job.


	5. Chapter 5

**The Chronicles of Artie; Girl-King Of England Born**

 **Chapter Five; Arturia** - **A Family Resemblance?**

You know, after all this time, I think I'm finally starting to feel like a King. Whenever I take my throne above the Table, whenever the people ask me for boons, whenever I look at myself in the mirror in my fancy royal clothes, it feels almost like I'm a different person. Not old Ector's girl, not the Princess Knight, not even Artie. I feel like the King.

Only I'm not too sure what that actually means.

Anyway, funny story. I was just getting ready for bed last night when one of Merlyn's owls flapped right through the window. Ever since he built Camelot for me, I've always dressed myself alone, so no-one was startled. Except me, but I don't count because I'm the King. Good thing I don't have a nurse any-more. Or any ladies-in-waiting. If I did, I have a feeling I'd have to start lying again.

 _'Gee, I have no idea why this owl is here. It's definitely not what Merlyn does when he wants to see you, though. That'd just be silly.'_

Which is good, because the owl was trying to eat my ear, and the King—that's me—has to be the most honest person in all the realm.

Even though I'm pretending to be a boy.

I followed the owl out the castle to Merlyn's tower. The guards tried to stop me leaving at first, but then they realised who I was and kinda bowed away. It's in a different place every night, Merlyn's tower. You can only see it by moonlight, and the door is always invisible, and you have to tap the stones in the right order to get in, and the stairs are always just a bit higher than you'd like them to be. His owl flew right up them. I wasn't too happy about that. Sometimes I wish I had wings, like an owl or an angel, but then I think about it. How would I fit them on the throne?

When I got to the loft Merlyn was sitting on his chair, looking out the window and humming. His owl joined its owl friends in the rafters. You'd think Merlyn reads a lot, but he only has one book, a great big one with beautiful illuminated pages. As you look at it the colours melt into each other like stained-glass snow, and the words drip into other words in Latin and Greek and a hundred other tongues. The book was still there, on the table in front of him, but it was shut and locked. Shame. I wanted to see it again.

"My liege," said Merlyn.

"Hey, Merlyn."

I looked around for a chair and couldn't find one, so I hopped on his table instead, legs dangling.

"So, what'd you call me here for?"

"I did not call you, my liege. I invited you, and you came. Remember, remember, forget it never -"

I tilted my head.

"What?"

"That you are King," he finished.

I like to think Merlyn has two voices. One of them is his serious voice, when he stands up to prophesy or scold or cast a spell. The other is his distracted voice, when he seems lost in something that hasn't actually happened yet, or something that did happen, or something that probably won't happen but just might. Most of the time he's distracted, but sometimes I can hear hints of his serious voice in there, like chunks of steel in cotton. He was like that yesterday.

"Well, of course I'm King," I said. "I mean, you did crown me. How am I supposed to forget that?"

Sometimes I wonder if he's putting it on.

"It was not I who crowned you, my liege, but Fate. For any head can wear a crown of gold, but only Fortune's favoured keep both, all things told. Heads and crowns are the bane of kings."

"Funny," I said. "I could've sworn it was you who put that old thing on me. There was a flash of light and everything. Are you sure you're not remembering it wrong?"

He looked right at me and smiled. It's not a very nice smile, Merlyn's - feels far too thin and distant, like he's waiting for the whole world to get the joke he hasn't made yet.

"You speak truth, my liege. But you see not the deeper things, which are my boon and bane. Future-sight and past-sight, rhyming riddles made: who can know save he who lies in the eternal glade? And yet, my liege, for you the glade is still far off."

"I don't get it."

"You will."

I'm going to keep this diary peach-pristine, and then I'll get it out in a few years, and I bet I still won't get it. And then I'll make Merlyn take it right back.

"So, where does God come into this?"

Merlyn's smile sharpened like a kitchen knife.

"Who am I to speak of God, King Arthur? You know what they say of my parentage."

"That your mother was a sucker-bus? Nah, there's no way that's true. If you really were demon-spawn, I'd have to chop your head off, and I don't want to. Besides, how is that your fault?"

Merlyn's eyes grew very hard and very bright, like fresh fishes'.

"You speak truth, my liege. Be he yeoman or earl, heathen or Christian, no man can choose his birth or blood. Thus the blood of the Pendragon runs through female veins."

I thought of blood, and of destiny, and of a big juicy roas...

I'm hungry. Back in ten, Diary.

* * *

Okay, I got bread and the leftover partridge from dinner. Sir Lemon is the best. I guess I'll continue on the next page. Now for second supper.

"...Female veins," said Merlyn.

I thought of blood and of destiny, but not a big juicy roast. King Uther, my real dad. He died real hard, but not before giving baby-me to old Ector. I still don't know how to feel about Uther, by the way. The old man didn't sound like a very nice person.

"If I had a brother," said I, "I think this whole business would be a lot easier."

Merlyn smiled. I peered at him.

"I don't actually have a brother, do I?"

Merlyn smiled.

"I mean, a real one, not like Sir Lemon."

"I can assure you, my liege, that you have no fruits whatsoever in your family tree, or on it."

See, Merlyn may always talk like this, but he usually sneaks a yes or no somewhere in there. I smelt a rat.

"Alright, Merlyn, no more riddles. Give it to me straight. On your troth. Pinkie promise. How many sons does Uther have?"

"None," said Merlyn, but he didn't take the pinkie. I stuck my tongue out at him and kept it there.

"Okay," I lisped, "then how many children does Uther have? Just checking."

"Two," said Merlyn. "The girl Arturia Pendragon, and her older sister, Morgan le Fay."

I almost bit my tongue off.

"Ow! Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait."

Silence reigned for twenty seconds while I pulled my hair, tapped my toes and gave my thumbs a good twiddling. The owls hooted, like they were enjoying the show. Finally I threw my hands up in exasperation.

"Say something, Merlyn! What are you doing?"

"Waiting," said Merlyn calmly.

"I have a sister?"

"Yes."

"I have a sister."

"Yes."

"I have a sister!"

"You seem very surprised," said Merlyn.

 _"Well,"_ I yelled, "I don't see why not, you smarmy custard-face! Because if I _do_ have an older sister, then _why in heck isn't she the Queen?"_

Trust me, you could've fried two eggs and a pheasant on my face. And then Merlyn said, taking his time, forming his words with the care of a copying monk:

"Well."

I threw the book at him. It stopped in mid-air, ruffled itself in a huff, and flopped down on the bed.

"You said I was the only one who could do this!"

"You are."

"Why?" I demanded. "You'd better have a good explanation, Merlyn."

"A woman," said Merlyn with the air of a falling axe, "cannot be King."

I'm not sure where my hands were at that point, but I think they were somewhere between my gaping mouth, my heaving chest and my _are-you-actually-serious_ eyes.

"I will explain, King Arthur," said Merlyn, fingers crawling up and down the spine of his one thick book. "As you no doubt know, Uther was a hard and bloody man, with hard and bloody men under him. When such men grow old and useless, they drown either in melancholy, or choler."

I winced. I could still remember the screams on Badon Hill.

"But your father had been an exceptional warrior," said Merlyn, "and so he choked on a slurry of both. He knew very well that his nobles would never rally under a woman, no matter who her father was. Rather, they would tear her apart like mangy dogs, and then set on each other, and fight with locked jaws over the shreds of the kingdom. At the same time, he had to preserve the rightful power of the line Pendragon—power which he knew his daughter Morgan did not have. That was the melancholy."

"Power?" I echoed.

"The furnace of prana that even now burns within you," said Merlyn. "It is the birthright that allows you to wield the brand Excalibur, and to bear the sheath Avalon. Lesser men would die trying."

"Alright," I frowned, still not entirely sure how to feel about this whole thing. It was like something old and insidious was tying a knot with the insides of my eyebrows. "What was the choler?"

"Uther disowned your sister Morgan, stripped her of her titles and lands, rent her royal robes and drove her from the palace in rags and tatters. He forbade any of his nobles from giving her succour on pain of treason, forbade any man from marrying her, and banished her name from every church, monastery and schoolhouse in the land. She was twelve. Her mother died of grief."

"...Ouch," I said, because there really wasn't anything to say. Even worse, I felt like this was somehow my fault. Then, after a few moments: "Didn't anyone do anything?"

"What could they do against Uther?" asked Merlyn. "He was a greying wolf, true, but his teeth were poisoned with rotten meat. And he had many wolves under him, young and ravenous. Do not underestimate your father, King Arthur. It was he who held the nobles together for decades on end, and at that time they were not yet fat on graft and usury. Compared to their fathers, the barons you fought are sacks of flour."

"Even Lot of Orkney?" I asked.

"Perhaps not," conceded Merlyn. "Then again, Orkney is a king—but we shall get to him later. The Church did excommunicate your father, so he had a few monasteries burnt just to show them their place. That said, I would not be surprised if your sister Morgan did find a refuge in holy orders during those terrible years. Sanctuary is a powerful thing, and there are precious few with the stomach to trespass on holy ground. Perhaps that will change in years to come."

Still the same knowing smile. Shuddering at the hint of blasphemy, I asked, "What did Uther do?"

"He came to me," said Merlyn. "Uther begged me to use my magicks to infuse his seed with the male essence, and to give him a son. He asked me to ensure that the child inherited the power of the Pendragons. I suppose he heard the rumors of my parentage, and assumed that I had experience with unnatural births."

"Do you?" I asked. The night seemed very cold all of a sudden.

"No more than anyone else born after my fashion," said Merlyn with a breezy lilt, "which is the thing, is it not? I took a drop of dragon's blood and mixed it with his seed. At the place where the leylines meet I chanted under the red moon, broke the back of a black goat with an aspen cross, smeared the red-white drop on a new-plucked mandrake root, and then ate root and goat together raw."

"Ew," I said.

"Women's magic," agreed Merlyn. "Absolutely disgusting."

"It didn't work, did it? I mean, Uther didn't get what he wanted."

Merlyn looked me up and down.

"In a sense," he said, "he did not."

"Oh," I said, and for once, I saw what he meant.

"You are the child born of that cursed night," said Merlyn, "Uther's promised son. It is good that he gave you to Sir Ector before rage overmastered him. He might have slain you otherwise, or done worse, reminded of his withered line with your every coo and gesture, and poor banished Morgan, whom he had loved. Part of the ritual worked: you have in you the ancient power of the Pendragons. You can tell which part didn't."

The owls shuffled and cooed.

"Who was my mother?" I asked quietly.

"Not even I know everything," said Merlyn.

"Why did I have to be a boy?" I asked again.

"Uther's pride was not the only reason. Neither was mere custom. Do you think the people would not accept a Queen? Nay, England has had queens before, and will have queens hence. Morgan was robbed. But I saw that he who pulled the sword from the stone was rightwise King of England born, not Queen, and my foresight does not lie. Perhaps there is a reason, hidden by God in an age to come."

I sat down against the wall and put my arms over my knees, remembering Caliburn's bright blue hilt, and how _right_ it had felt in my hand, sliding from the stone like samite on powdered skin.

"Why _wasn't_ I a boy?" I whispered.

"Fate," said Merlyn, his eyes hard and bright as diamonds. "Call it the will of God, if you must, but the Stoics called it Fate, and knew that no man could escape it. Do not sulk over what you cannot change, my liege. In the sight of all you are a man, and that is all that matters. My glamours hide your sex from view, and there is no-one on this island who can overcome them... save one."

I still felt miserable, but this made me look up.

"I thought no-one could out-magick you. Who is it?"

"Your sister," said Merlyn. "Uther should have waited for her to come of age."

I stared at him. The thought was beginning to form, but I didn't want it to finish.

"You had the ancient power foisted upon you," said Merlyn, "ripped from its roots by goat and mandrake and dragon's blood. Morgan has the birthright in truth, and when it reared its scaled head with her first monthly flow she awakened to ungodly power. She is the wife of King Lot of Orkney, and a witch of vast wiles and deep sorceries. She will not rest until she destroys you and ascends to her rightful place on the throne of England."

I looked back down, wanting nothing more than to give up the throne there and then, stomp on my crown, grab Kay by the arm, and run all the way back to the Forest Sauvage. Back to Ector, the man who had treated me like his real daughter, the man who had gout in both knees and sang loud drunken songs after boar-hunting. Not like Uther, the dead King who had thrown his firstborn daughter out and tossed his second away. I could feel his bloodstained arms in the walls, reaching past my chest, hands gripping the crown of my head like a filigreed vise.

"You're Merlyn," I said in a tiny voice. "You built this whole place for me, all of Camelot. Can't you stop her?"

"Your sister's power is such that I cannot be certain of overcoming her, were we ever to meet in a duel of magecraft. Not only that, she is a witch, and witches do not fight face-to-face. Their magicks are subtle as spiderwebs, and a good deal more complicated. Nay, most likely Morgan will try to unmask your true sex, and turn the people's hearts against you."

"Then what can I do?" I asked helplessly. "All I'm good at is hitting bad guys with swords."

"There is a way," said Merlyn slowly. And he smiled his pale wan smile, leaned in close, and told me.

* * *

 _It is I, the narrator! And no, you are not seeing things, this really is an update. The next few chapters are lined up, at least, so don't worry about me vanishing just yet. Onward!_


	6. Chapter 6

**The Chronicles of Artie Pendragon, Girl-King of England Born**

 **Chapter Six; Kay — A Game Of Troths**

"You're getting _what?!_ "

I nearly drop breakfast. The quail-eggs quiver, cowed... and don't even get me started on the milk.

"Well," says Artie, blinking at me through her bed-hair, "I thought it sounded pretty simple. Merlyn told me to get married."

I put the royal breakfast on the royal table and start spreading the royal butter on the royal toast, hands twitching. Inside my head, I count the number of furnaces we have on full blast in the kitchens, the number of guests we have for tonight, and the number of spitjacks who'll need whipping if we burn anything.

Seven, two hundred, all of them. I think I'm doing this just to stop myself from screaming.

Artie takes the wooden mug and slurps.

"So, marriage," I grind out. "Yeah, that sounds like a great idea. You know, marry the King to a girl, even though the King's actually a girl. Could her big dumb Majesty remind me just _why_ this is necessary?"

"Well," says Artie, tapping a finger on her milk-moustache.

"No, don't do that. Merlyn does that. It's stupid. Stop saying _well_. Just don't. And clean your mouth!"

"Excuse me," says Artie, "but I'm the King. I can fashion any way I please."

"That's not how you use the word, Artie."

"Now it is," she retorts.

Then, after a pause:

"I think I'll make milk-mustaches mandatory."

She grins, then wipes her mouth with her sleeve. I consider jamming my elbow right on the royal head — then something hits me.

There's bags around her eyes. Her lips are paler than usual, despite the grin, and her shoulders are sagging. She's been awake for more than a while. And if there's anyone in the realm who sleeps like a brain-dead log, it's Arturia Pendragon, my stupid little sister.

She reaches for the quail-eggs, but I lift the tray just out of her reach and fix her with my best glare.

"Hey!" she says. "Quit it, you ninny."

She swipes again, so I take the tray, walk all the way to the other side of the bedroom, and put right on the writing desk. Then I turn around and fold my arms.

"Alright, Artie. Out with it."

She looks at me, ducks her head, looks at the wall, looks at me again, and then finally stops squirming. All the air goes out of her. Even her dumb bouncy tuft loses its spring... and trust me, I've tried to kill that thing. It's pretty much immortal.

"Merlyn says that if I don't get married, the people might get the wrong idea. He says I should do it. For stability.

"Y'know," she adds in a small voice.

She's not lying. Artie couldn't twist the facts if she was facing them in an arm-wrestle for eternal life. But somehow, I know that's not all there is to it, that Merlyn has more things up his poofy sleeves, and that Artie — as usual — is going to get the sharp end of the pointy stick. I'll need to tease it out of her.

"You can't marry a woman, Artie. It'd be a bigger lie than all the other ones you've stepped in. What, is Merlyn going to steal some sheik's son from Araby and make everyone think he's a harem girl?"

"I think I'll manage," she says, with a pathetic ripple of false cheer.

"No you won't! " I snap. "You don't have the brains or the guts or the heart to do it. At least think of the poor girl. Look, I can lie, and Merlyn can make it a huge magic lie, and you can live the lie all you want. But don't trap an innocent girl in something she can't escape. It's bloody unnatural. You'll drive her insane! Who did you have in mind?"

She shrinks into the covers, bunches her knees up, purses her lips, and says nothing. Anger scalds my neck like a coif of steam.

"No, no, no!" I shout. "This is stupid! Everyone else in the kingdom might let you get away with this, but I sure as hell won't! Look, Artie, I know you didn't get the memo before Badon, but even if you were marrying a man, you can't have an heir! You're too young!"

"Not forever," she says limply, but with mounting anger in her emerald eyes.

"Artie," I groan, raising my eyes to heaven, "you haven't grown an inch in _two years_ , ever since you pulled that stupid sword from that stupid stone, and you've been eating and drinking better than you ever have. You'd better start praying that it won't be forever!"

"I don't have to do anything you say, Kay," she retorts. "Why don't you just leave?"

"Oh, I see! No son, no husband, and a fake wife too! What type of stability is that supposed to bring? Have you lost your wits? Did Merlyn slip some laudanum in that brain of yours? Is this Uther working some gorramed curse from the grave or—"

 **"Enough!"** She sits ramrod-straight, eyes afire, throwing the covers off herself and jabbing her finger at me like a naked sword. The breath rushes out from my lungs. My legs give way and I fall back against the wall, sitting silent, stunned and shaking mad.

"Before I call the guards, _seneschal_ ," says Artie in a small steely voice, "and have them arrest you for treason, remove yourself from my quarters. Now."

My little sister stares at me like a stranger. I stand up, take the tray, shove it back on her table as hard as I can, and stumble towards the door, feeling sick to my stomach. A single quail's egg bounces off the bed and onto the carpet, glistening like a wet grey pearl.

How did she do that? Become so much like a King, in so short a time? When did she...

"You would do well, Sir Kay, to remember your place. You are not Sir Ector, and even then, Sir Ector is not my father. He is my subject, as are you. I am... I'm the son of the Pendragon."

Uther. Of course. Uther and Merlyn. They planned all of this. They stole my baby sister's life before she was old enough to walk, made the future throne her crypt and cradle. She doesn't mean it. I can hear the anguish in her voice. She doesn't know what to do, that's all. She can't be Artie and the King at the same time. She has to choose one, but she can't.

"I am your Majesty's most humble servant."

I don't look at her. If I do I might break down. I clench my fists into white lumps and walk away without shutting the door, grateful that the King banished all the guards from her personal corridor, furious at Artie for removing the only people with a decent chance of protecting her. I can't kill. I'm just a seneschal. The kitchen-boy.

If I could poison Merlyn, I would, but he'd probably vanish the food. I'll just have to do the next best thing and stop this marriage. Not for the kingdom. The kingdom can go hang.

I'm doing this for Artie.


	7. Chapter 7

**The Chronicles of Artie Pendragon, Girl-King of England Born**

 **Chapter Seven; Kay - As You Wish**

No, I haven't seen Artie either. Stop asking.

Anyway, after spending the past five days as far away from the royal presence as possible, today I finally ran into Merlyn. Literally. I was overseeing the maintenance of Mysterious Camelot Corridor #425 when he walked out the third door, smiling that stupid smile of his and ogling the cleaning girls, so I pretended to slip on the feather duster and pushed him right back in. Maud snickered. I glared at her, then stepped inside and slammed the door with my foot.

"Finally got you, you slimy git," I said to Merlyn, who with his robes over his head looked a bit like a malnourished pillow. "Why'd you do it?"

Merlyn floated to his feet, settled his robes, and artfully arranged his white locks over his sharp smug bonce.

"I make no plea of ignorance, dear Kay. This one is yours to question, as you say."

"That... that's not even an answer, you sissified snowball."

"Neither was your crooked query a question," said Merlyn, his eyes glinting like snakes' scales. "What did I do, my dear Kay, and why would you possibly want to know the reason?"

I put up a hand and jabbed my finger towards the door.

"First you seal that doorway, so no-one hears anything. Especially not you, Maud!"

"What?" came a feigned shout from the corridor outside. "You'll have to forgive me, Master Kay, I'm a bit hard of hearing!"

"Yeah, right! Put some hosen in it, Maud!"

"Even if I did seal the door," smiled Merlyn, "and did keep my secret—mine, mind you, not yours—what stops me from revealing it to anyone I please? You have no possible way of compelling me, dear Kay."

"Cut that out. It's Sir Kay, or Kay. I've never liked you, and you know that, so let's stop pretending. Just seal the door."

Merlyn gave his stupid smile, which looks like a smirk if you glance at the edges. He pointed a finger towards the door and said a word. The scrubbing and dusting and chatter vanished like a flock of scattered sparrows.

"Again, Sir Kay, your question."

He was the picture of politeness. For a moment, I almost felt bad. Then I remembered who I was talking to, and how he could twist and stretch around everything like a long lump of dough, and I rubbed the irritation right back into my eyes.

"When you put the spell on everyone to make them forget Artie was a girl—"

"It is a glamour, Sir Kay. It presents the beholder with what he expects to see. Not even I can alter every mind in England."

"Whatever. Point is, you did it. Second point is, you agreed not to do it to me... which is the only reason I still know who Artie is. Now, everyone says you're the most powerful magician alive. If they're right, which I'm pretty sure they are, then why in the world would you need to take precautions against anything? What's this sewer-slop about a marriage?"

Merlyn folded his hands.

"Magecraft, Sir Kay, is like a book."

"Oh, sweet Jesus, I didn't ask for this."

"A book," smiled Merlyn, in his mule-stubborn manner. "We, the Mages, scrawl what we can in our short lives, and cut the pages, and leave the still-bound blanks to our descendants. But even if you had a tome to dwarf this castle, Sir Kay, and crush these battlements with the weight of its pages, you could not with it compass all the learning in the world."

"So," I frown, "what you're saying is that someone could still slip past you. Someone with magic you don't know about could undo the glamour."

"You have a quick mind," said Merlyn. "A shame. It is wasted in the kitchen."

"Well," I flashed back, "it's just not your lucky day, is it? Because I'm here, and not in the kitchen, and your lame excuse doesn't make a lick of sense. What does getting married have to do with Artie's glamour? If it gets undone, then everyone will know that the King, a girl, took a woman to wife. They'll burn her alive!"

"Well," echoed Merlyn, and turned away, as if marking a swallow outside the non-existent window. It sounded so callous and so utterly inane that I almost stabbed him there and then. Trust me, my sword was out before I could think about it.

Then I thought about it and punched him right in the mouth. He touched his split lip and looked at me, as if surprised that I would even consider it. I hit him again. But before I could do it a third time, he said another word, and gestured.

It felt like a giant was trying to pluck my arms off. I screamed and hit the door like a flung puppet. My sword twisted like a splintering stalk, then burst, the steel shards tinkling all over the floor. They slit my hands and face.

"Understand this, Kay." Merlyn paced in front of me, to and fro, the same dreamy lilt in his unruffled voice. "It has been my curse, ever since my youth, to see the stuff of futures. Do you think this a matter for yourself alone? Do you think Arturia is yours? You are a fool, dear boy. She is not even your real sister."

He rubbed a gentle hand over his bleeding chin, and when he took it away his lip was whole. I ground out something wild and wretched, but even I didn't know what I was saying.

"No," said Merlyn, a haunted light in his eyes, "the tale of King Arthur has already been written. It was chiseled in the future by the finger of Fate long before you or I existed. Arthur will marry Guinevere, daughter of King Leodogran of Cameliard, because it is written. Hear me, Kay: the best of kings will face the greatest of knights, and at the end of all the dream will drown in blood, choked by a traitor without any choice. It is written. And Merlyn, poor wise, foolish Merlyn—"

He choked, then, a horrible noise, because it sounded so terribly human. The invisible arms twisted harder. I gnashed my teeth and snarled like a dog. Then they let go, and I fell to the steel-strewn floor, my shoulders wracked with piercing spasms and my face leaking red.

Merlyn knelt and took my chin in his cold sharp fingers.

"You, Kay," said Merlyn with awful clarity, each word as bright as a funeral bell, "are nothing. You do no great deeds. You perform no feats of arms. You rot in the kitchen for the rest of your life, a sallow bitter man, covered in grease and rancor and the shadow of your foster-brother. Most people don't even remember your name."

I burbled something, but the red snot ran through my words and washed them away.

"You know I speak the truth," said Merlyn. "It would make no difference if you denied it. So tell me, why? Why do you fight when you cannot?"

The question lingered in the air, tinged with a desperation that surpassed curiosity. I gathered my breath, looked up, and spat in his face. Merlyn stayed still for several seconds, the spittle leaving a slow snail-trail down his left cheek. Then he stood, wiped it off, and touched my forehead. The pain stopped, as if snipped by a barber's shears. My wounds sealed like sewn-up seams. The scattered remnants of my sword spiraled back together, clacked like an iron brace, and fused. Then the blade sheathed itself.

I put a hand on the door and stood, completely whole, except for the horrid sour ache in the pit of my stomach and the hatred eating at my heart. Outside birds sang.

"I don't know what you saw in the future, Merlyn," I said, trying to control the venom in my voice. "I don't know what miserable version of me they sing or talk or read about. Frankly, I don't even care if I'm remembered."

Lies. The thought hurt worse than my wounds had. But I kept going.

"Here's what you don't understand, Merlyn. Whatever your legends say, they don't know Artie. You don't know Artie. You're just like that blasted Uther—all you can see is the King. But I... I love her. And if you're going to ruin her life, then I'll be more than happy to give up mine to stop you."

Merlyn looked at me, his eyes inhumanly calm.

"There is much you do not know," he said. "You don't have the strength."

"Try me," I hissed.

Merlyn shrugged, and, walking past me, touched the door. The silence fled, and I heard the creak of craning necks and the hushed giggles of the cleaning girls. He swung the door open, to a chorus of general squealing.

Yes, even Maud.

"Oh, Master Kay," tittered the third girl, "we were just wondering what you were up to. You were in there with Master Merlyn so terribly long."

I glowered at her, but instead of bursting into flames like I wanted, she grabbed the feather-duster and flounced backwards, laughing. Merlyn flashed a winning smile, to peals of flustered delight.

"Now, ladies," he said, "there's nothing to be worried about. We were only discussing the impending marriage of our dear King Arthur."


End file.
